


Bloodsport

by skellygay



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Background Character Death, Death Implied, Possessive Behavior, but not outright written, implied lucigast lucien/caleb, reference to shadowgast, reference to spoilers from episode 124, violence against Essek described be warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 23:34:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29286870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skellygay/pseuds/skellygay
Summary: What if Lucien had been scrying and got incredibly jealous of the soft moment between Essek and Caleb haha jk... unless...
Comments: 10
Kudos: 51





	Bloodsport

Tearing through the Dynasty outpost had been so laughably simple it felt like a trap, they had been warned, they had time to prepare, surely there had to be more? Yet, there wasn’t. Utter fools, the Dynasty and the Empire alike, the two nations share far more in common than they would ever admit. Their reliance on magic will be the downfall of them both. 

The crunch of someone irrelevant running desperately through the snow was cut off abruptly with a gurgling cry of pain in the near distance and the Nonagon didn’t even flinch. He continued with confident strides undeterred from his path towards the room he saw when he had last cast scry on the increasingly annoying thorns in his side. Around him, the frigid air grew warmer and the Nonagon’s sly smile only grows wider as fire licks at his heels and clambers up the nearby walls. A gift from his devoted followers that he can see through the ruins of the encampment to have quickly gotten the upper hand and consumed it. 

He stops in front of the once before seen door, tail swishing behind him excitedly as he pauses to listen for the telltale signs that his sole target and reason for this raid is behind it. The commotion of battle has died out drastically since he first took out their illusions and exposed the outpost for all to see. Only the odd shout and burst of footsteps as stragglers are driven out of their hiding places and quickly disposed of by his chosen few. The name of their useless god the last thing on their tongue. From behind the door, he can hear the muffled sound of frantic movement, papers rustling, and something scraping against the ground. With one hand the blood hunter reaches for the hilt of one of his two scimitars as the other grasps the handle of the door firmly. 

So laughably simple. 

With a quick twist and a slam, the door was flung open, a half-drawn teleport circle drawn obviously in a rush marks the floor. The previously centred table now resides pushed to the back of the room to make room for the circle, with paper and tomes of various sizes laying strewn across it, some even damaged from how roughly they had been removed from their designated places on the shelves that line the side walls. At the noise of the door the drow crouching in the middle of the unfinished teleportation circle jolts in surprise, he quickly recovers though, and with speed only born of years of dedication and practice twists his hands in an unfamiliar pattern to cast a spell that was never going to succeed. When the spell bears no results the drow’s head snaps up, panic clear in his eyes as he scrambles backwards and to his feet in a rather clumsy manner that speaks to much less dedication and practice. 

Nonagon steps across the threshold as he finally speaks. “Well look here, someone didn’t listen.” 

There is no reply, just a thump as the drow’s back hits the table pushed against the back wall, he hopelessly searches the table for anything that could be used as a weapon to no such luck. His eyes never leaving the intruder as he does so. 

Tutting, the blood hunter closes the door behind him and walks further into the room, running his blade on the side of his calf as he does so, the metal flaring with a bright light as it makes contact with his cursed blood. “Sorry to barge in like this, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. The name’s Lucien.” 

As Lucien walks ever closer the drow tries to duck past him with no success, his movements are too panicked, too slow, just typical of mages and their ilk. Before the drow can even take two steps he has already been grabbed by the throat and slammed unceremoniously into the table he had searched for his salvation in just moments before. “Now, now. I know you are not this rude to all your guests.” 

The drow struggles against Lucien’s grip to no avail, feet flailing as they fail to make purchase on the ground, kicking his attacker in the shins instead. In retaliation Lucien lifts his glowing scimitar till it is mere inches from the drow’s face, causing him to hiss and turn away from the searing light. 

“I told you my name, it’s only manners you tell me yours.” The blood hunter says as he runs his blade ever so lightly down the drow’s cheek, blood beading at the surface as he does so. 

There is a tense pause of silence as the drow’s ears twitch, straining to hear for anything he could possibly construe as back up. Lucien takes the moment to bask in the sound of the short nervous breath from the being beneath him and the crackle of nearby fires. There are no more shouts or sounds of movement, sensing his devoted few waiting ever obediently outside the door for him to finish what he came here to do he squeezes at the throat. Gasping the drow scrambles to push Lucien off once more, grabbing the arm at his throat with both hands, desperately trying to pull it away, but Lucien just puts his weight behind his arm and the drow goes limp, giving up his fool’s errand.

After a pause, Lucien takes the pressure off but keeps his grip firm. “Name.” He commands. 

“Essek… Essek of den Thelyss.” The drow replies quietly, the panic and fear in his eyes replaced with the cold acceptance of a dead man. 

“See? Now that wasn’t too hard.” Lucien says, swiping Essek’s blood across his chin from the slice in his cheek as he continues. “Well, Essek we have a shared nuisance, but I’ll keep this short, I’ve said it once already, but you weren’t there. So, I might as well say it again.” 

Tightening his grip Lucien lifts Essek into the air by the hand on his throat, the hands around his arm tightening in turn momentarily at the sudden movement. Dripping with possession Lucien says “The wizard is mine.” As nine red pinpoints light upon his body. 

Feet dangling unable to touch the ground Essek’s body goes rigid with pain, his eyes squeezing shut in hopes it will stop yet the rivets of blood still begin to pour from his ears and the corners of his eyes. With a gasp that can only speak of unimaginable pain, he replies “You don’t want to do this; he’ll never forgive you.” Slowly forcing his eyes open Essek looks his attacker in the face, his eyes bloodshot, yet, his gaze is softened by a look of pity and kinship. 

He is taken aback momentarily confused at the look, an incredibly weak last-ditch attempt at escaping with his life but then it clicks. During his last scry on the troublesome group of do-gooders, he had noticed how the drow had refused to meet the wizard’s gaze, even as the man touched his arm and stood barely a breath away from him. The simple act of closeness between the two had been the tipping point that drove him to take this quick diversion after all. However, before that Essek had spoken of shame at his previous actions, of being undeserving of forgiveness. Actions of a coward too afraid to embrace the consequences of succeeding in their goals no matter the cost. To think even for a second, they are one of the same is a smear against the name of the Nonagon. Lucien does not wilt at the gaze of his victims, finding only satisfaction in his actions as each mark one step closer to completing his goal. There is no kinship here, what the wizard thinks of him matters little to Lucien. 

His grip tightens around Essek’s throat as Lucien brings him closer until their faces are inches apart. Snarling “I don’t want forgiveness.” The nine eyes that litter his body flare once more in unison. 

All that matters to Lucien is that the wizard is his, and his alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to imagine someone of your choosing saving Essek if it hurts too much
> 
> thank you RittaPokie for the title and being excited for angst.


End file.
